


Reunion

by bactaqueen



Category: Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Cockpit Sex, F/M, PWP, President Cap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 10:00:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15638436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: President Cap is a teensy bit paranoid, but he still wants (to see) you.





	Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people or events is entirely coincidental. Captain America belongs to Marvel. No infringement is intended and no profit is made.
> 
> Author’s Note: Apparently I'm just purging my entire "no one will ever read this" folder.

****Silent men in dark sunglasses and darker suits usher you through softly-lit empty halls. They don't give you the chance to look around--and it's a shame, too, because what's the point of dating the President of the United States if you don't even get to see the Lincoln Bedroom? But they're big, impassive guys. They're pretty intimidating.

And surprising. Does he really need the security? You can't imagine they're any better at protecting him than he is at protecting himself.

They lead you into a hidden elevator at the end of a long hall, and you have a single moment of panic. The voice on the phone had certainly sounded like Steve. The Secret Service badges these men had flashed had sure looked legit and the all-black armored SUV and helicopter had carried the Presidential Seal, but as the elevator doors  _whoosh_  shut, you think about all the enemies he's made... and those are just the ones you know of.

What if that wasn't really him on the phone?

What if these aren't real Secret Service?

What if you're being used against him?

You take a deep breath. If you've walked into a trap, it's too late to worry about it now. Panicking won't help you and it won't help Steve. And besides, this probably isn't a trap. Of course he can't come see you. Of course he needs you to come to him--and you're happy to do it. You don't want him trying to sneak around Brooklyn.

He's really bad at sneaking.

As far out of his way as he's gone to keep you safe, it makes sense that he'd send his security detail to pick you up.  _It makes sense._  You smooth a hand down the front of your skirt as the elevator drops and your stomach settles. You tuck your hair back up into its braid and you take another deep breath.

It doesn't do you any good. You're still shaking. It was easier to focus on how this might be a trap instead of letting yourself think about how much you've missed him.

You had hoped that when you finally saw him again that the setting would be more comfortable and familiar. More homey. Not the White House... or whatever is under the White House where they're taking you. In the months since he took off, you'd daydreamed about how he'd show up in your building, looking more ragged and worn-out than usual. How he'd cross the threshold and his guard would come down and he'd be home.

The elevator opens into an underground bunker. The air is damp and chilly and the place is absolutely cavernous. You step out onto the unforgiving concrete; your footfall echoes for a long time. There are lines painted on the floor, yellow and black or red and yellow, and warnings are stenciled every fifty feet or so. There are several fighter jets along one wall, pointed in the same direction though you can't see anything that looks like it would open up to let them out. There are helicopters, too, and motorcycles, and a whole convoy's worth of Humvees and Jeeps.

This is... disconcerting.

The silent men lead you toward one of the jets, but stop well before the red and yellow warnings to stay back.

There's movement through the canopy of the jet closest to where they've stopped. One of the silent men shifts his weight, scraping his shoe on the concrete, and it's clearly a signal of some sort, but he still doesn't say anything.

The canopy hisses open, and Steve pokes his head out of the cockpit.

It's such a relief to see him for real that your knees nearly give out. He's all right.

You could have ended it months ago when he'd shown up at your door and said he was leaving and didn't know when he'd be back. You probably should have ended it, because waiting around for a man probably wasn't the smartest or healthiest idea. Sometimes it was awful. The postcards would come in the mail, or you'd catch a glimpse of him on the news, and it would just reawaken your feelings for him, and there'd be no outlet for those feelings. You thought several times about throwing out the postcards and the pictures, about moving, saving yourself the heartache.

Then the whole country went to hell and he was the only solid, dependable thing left--and even then, he was only on TV.

Seeing him now is almost too much.

And he looks relieved. "You came."

"Well, when the President asks to see you, it's your patriotic duty to show up." Your voice only shakes a little. You're proud of that.

His expression is strained. "At least someone understands her patriotic duty." He glances at the silent men. "You can go now, fellas."

"Sir," starts the bravest of the two.

Steve stares him down.

"Yes, sir," they murmur together after a minute, and then they just seem to... melt away.

You realize they can't possibly have gone too far. The elevator remains open and there's no echoing of retreating footsteps. But they have disappeared, leaving you alone with Steve for the first time in months, and you don't care where they are or what they're doing as long as they don't bother the two of you anymore.

You stare up at him, and with security gone, he stops hiding the exhaustion and resignation. He needs a haircut, too, you notice; unless, of course, he's letting it grow out a little on someone's advice for political reasons.

Maybe they want him to be more "modern."

"I saw you on the news the other day," you tell him. You quirk a smile. "Gray's not your color. Stick to the blue suits. That's why we elected you."

He smiles back. Just a little one, not quite all the way up to his eyes, but it's there. "That's exactly what I told them." He leans out of the cockpit to point to a set of rolling stairs against the wall, between the tail of his fighter and the nose of the next. "Push those over and come up."

You look at the stairs and then up at him. "Come up?"

"Yes. Up."

No "nice to see you," no "I missed you," just "come up here and check out my new toy." Maybe you should be worried.

You look between him, the expectant expression on his face as he leans out of the jet, and the stairs. They seemed awfully tall.

There's a reason you live on the ground floor.

But he has his reasons, you're sure, and you think it's unlikely he's deliberately trying to frighten you, so if he wants you to climb up, you can do this.

You cross to the stairs and unlock the wheels before you roll it over to his jet. He reaches out to help guide it into place, and holds it while you lock the wheels again. He even waits for you to take a deep breath.

"Just keep your eyes on me," he says gently.

It feels like such a long way from the top of the steps to the concrete floor.

Steve puts his hands on your waist as soon as you're on the second-to-the-last step and lifts you off the ladder and into the cockpit.

You gasp and grip his shoulders too tight. Somehow, you'd managed to forget how strong he is. You blush, hot, and push a little at his arms.

"Put me down," you say quietly.

"All right." He settles back in the ejection seat and sets you on his lap.

There isn't much room in the cockpit, obviously, but there's enough space for you to make yourself comfortable sitting on his thighs, your knees braced on the edges of the ejection seat. If you lean back, the flightstick digs into the small of your back, so you shift your weight forward. You can't move your elbows for fear of knocking into a button or a switch, so your best option is to tuck your elbows in close and keep your hands on him.

You raise an eyebrow at him. "You planned this." You're not complaining, but it does seem pretty sneaky...

"Hang on," he says. He leans forward, pressing his chest against yours, and he flicks a switch on the control panel.

The canopy starts to close over your heads.

"Wait, Steve--"

The look he gives you silences your protest.

You press your lips into a thin line and look down at him. Whatever it is he has planned, you wish he had told you ahead of time.

Once the cockpit is sealed, pressurizing automatically with a soft  _hiss_ , he puts a hand on the back of your head and pulls you into a kiss.

It's alarmingly desperate. His fingertips dig into your scalp and his arm slides around your back until he's crushing you to his chest. He tastes like he  _needs_  and he's overwhelming--you're helpless to do anything but fold in, give him what he's taking.

He makes a quiet, needy sound in the back of his throat and pulls you closer, kisses you deeper. You wonder what has brought this on before you lose yourself in him.

When he pulls away, it's with kisses brushed to your lips.

"This is the only place that's safe," he says, voice rough. His arm around your back slides down so he can pull you closer as he sinks back against the ejection seat. He brushes his lips to your cheek and to the angle of your jaw before he presses his face to your neck and holds you still and close. "I missed you."

Oh. Well, if that's all... You tighten your arms around him. "I'm not the one who went off to find myself like a  _hippie_  instead of acting like a sensible senior citizen."

He huffs, a quiet laugh against your skin.

You stroke the soft hairs at the back of his neck at his hairline and shift, settling more comfortably in his lap, hip to hip, your thighs framing his. "The postcards were nice. I really liked the one from Alaska."

He grunts, a sound you know means, "Yeah?"  
  


All the postcards he sent are stuck to your refrigerator with fruit magnets. You comb your fingers idly through his hair, keeping one arm tight around his shoulders, and absently, you brush a kiss to his temple. "There sure were a lot from Arizona. Was the dry heat good for your old bones or something?"

He chuckles again and lifts his face to kiss you. "I really missed you," he says against your lips.

"No one else makes old man jokes? I think you're just not listening." You curl your fingers against the back of his head to bring him in for another kiss.

His laugh sounds breathless in a bad way and his kiss is a little too rough, a little too desperate. You give in easily--he doesn't have to fight here, not for you. You keep running your fingers through his hair as he pulls away, and you can feel his eyes on you, searching like he'll memorize every inch of you. You tip your head and purse your lips thoughtfully.

"I don't think I like it longer," you decide.

Sheepishness passes over his face. "I haven't had time to get it cut."

You tug gently at his hair. "What, are you busy or something?"

He's smirking when he says, "Not tonight. I could get the haircut instead of--"

You yank, just a little too forcefully--by accident. By happy accident, if the flare of heat in his eyes is anything to go on. "Don't you dare. I missed you, too."

"I'm sorry," he says. His hand tightens on your side.

You hear what he's really sorry for, but you shake your head. "Don't be. You gotta do what you gotta do, I get it." You like pulling his hair too much, so you stroke your fingers down the back of his neck instead. "So why is your cockpit the safest place?"

"No bugs." He ignores the deliberate emphasis you put on cock. He runs a hand up and down the center of your back. "I've got kill codes and overrides if someone tries to take it over, and they have, so I know my stuff works. No one's going to bother us, because if they do, this thing is armed."

You smirk at him. "I see you're finally taking your leisure time seriously."

He frowns. "I should have taken it more seriously back in New York."

You hate that frown. "I knew what I was getting into." You tuck a finger into the back of the collar of his shirt, tug it away from his skin. It's starting to warm up in the cockpit, between you, and his shirt is still looking far too stiff.

"No, you didn't."

He still thinks you didn't know who he was when he asked if you'd like to get coffee. It's sweet. You shrug. Let him think what he wants. The fact remains that you knew what you were getting into when you let it get serious--well, as serious as he'd let it get.

Some things are worth it for the right guy.

And oh boy is he the right guy.

You slide your finger along his neck in the collar of his shirt and follow the collar down to the open top button. You brush your fingertip along the hollow of his throat. "It's cozy in here," you say.

"Do you like it?"

Cockpits aren't on your top anything list of places to be, but you're pretty sure you wouldn't mind being confined to any small space with him. You tug at the neck of his undershirt, slip your fingers in under it to rub your knuckle against his warm skin there.

"The seat's not big enough," you say. "And it stinks like you just sit in here and sweat." Admittedly, not a stink you dislike, but you don't say that. You shift a little closer to him, pressing your hips to his and pressing the center of you against the line of his cock slowly starting to firm up. "But I guess it's all right. It could probably be worse."

"The President should be able to offer better digs," he concedes, "but I think I've probably hit too many people. I haven't slept in my own bedroom since I found the bugs."

You raise an eyebrow at him. So many questions to ask, but you settle on the one that matters the most to you. "Have you been sleeping at all?" And you hope his answer isn't that he's been sleeping in the jet.

He strokes his hand up and down your back. "I set up a cot in one of the storage rooms down here. It's safe, but not safe enough."

That doesn't answer your question, but you suspect that's the best he's going to give you.

"You have a bed and we're in here?"

"Secret Service guards that bed." He tips his head back to look up, then cuts his eyes at you. "This canopy is sound-proof."

But not opaque.

You smirk at him and tug at a curl of chest hair just under the neck of his undershirt. "Oh, so you don't sit in here and sweat, you sit in here and jerk off." You lift on your knees, just enough to rise over him. You steal a kiss and start working on the buttons of his shirt.

He smiles even as he chastises, "Don't be crude."

"I am a fully liberated woman, grandpa, I can be whatever I want to be." You run your hand down the front of him until you can pull the bottom of his shirt out of his pants and push it all the way off his shoulders. Before he can pull away to shrug it off, you lay your palm flat over his heart and kiss him, lightly. "I missed you. I know you think you had to do it, but you didn't have to run off alone like that." You blink open your eyes to meet his and smile a little. "I just... wanted to say that."

He goes very still, searching your eyes, your face. He says, finally, "I couldn't ask you to come with me. I didn't even know where I was going. And I couldn't stay." He moves carefully, leaning forward without dislodging you, and he strips off the starched and pressed white button-down and the sleeveless undershirt beneath. "It wouldn't have been fun," he adds, settling back, bringing you close once more. He rests his hands on your knees and then, slowly, starts sliding them up, up, under your skirt, up your thighs. He half-smiles. "I spent most of it camping in the middle of nowhere. I ate a lot of snakes."

You laugh, a short sharp burst. You run your fingers lightly up and down his side, over his ribs. "How were they?"

"Dry. Chewy. Worse than the coffee. The coffee was pretty bad."

You make a face but can't help laughing. "Gross."

He smiles at you. "The food now is slightly better."

"You're eating MREs, aren't you?"

He smiles into another kiss.

"Those will kill you," you murmur against his lips, and steal another kiss.

"Better than the snakes," he says.

For a while, the silence is punctuated only by soft breaths--gasps, sighs--and the wet sounds of kissing, and the rustle of fabric. It's easy. It's so easy. Letting your fingers explore, walking down the ladder of his ribs, sliding up the front of him, twisting through the hair on his chest, rubbing along the line of his shoulders, stroking up and down his neck. He's still as hot-blooded as he ever was, but after the chill of the lonely winter, it's nice.

He kisses down the side of your neck as his hand slides up, over your skirt, to the edge of your shirt. He pushes up at it as he nuzzles into the hollow of your throat. His fingers curve around your side, digging in, pulling you closer.

You lean away from him and strip your shirt over your head yourself.

Steve's hands are on your back, fingers dug in just the good side of too hard, and he pulls you back. He kisses across your collarbones, into the hollow of your throat, and he lips at one of the straps of your bra. His fingers on your back pull you closer, guide you up until he can press his face to your chest just above the front clasp of your bra.

He sucks in a deep breath. It's a little shaky.

You tug at his hair. "Hey." You wait until he tips his head back and looks up at you. His eyes are dark and there's a high flush on his cheeks and his lips are just slightly swollen. You smooth his hair back. If you're going to ask, now is good. "How are you? Really? I can't tell on TV." You think you can, sometimes, but other times...

A strange, pained expression crosses his face. You want to tell him he doesn't have to tell you--but you know how he gets, and you can't imagine his current situation leaves him much time for unburdening on people who actually care about him.

You wonder if he even has anyone left at all.

"I think I'm going to resign," he admits. "As soon as the country's back together, they're going to want me to play games I can't play."

It wouldn't be the strangest thing that has happened this year. You hold his head, gently, fingers slipping in his hair, and you kiss his forehead.

"That doesn't answer my question," you tell him quietly.

He closes his eyes, briefly, and seems to savor the simple, chaste kiss. His fingers on your back tighten just a little. "I'm better now." His voice is lower, a little rougher.

If you push, he might break down, and that's not why you're here. You tip his head and brush your mouth to his in a fleeting kiss. "It's amazing what a booty call can do for a guy."

He laughs.

You unwrap your arms from around him and pull back, pushing against his hands. He's a little grabby--a little desperate. You're not pulling away. You're just unclasping your bra and dropping it behind you. Heat flares in his eyes and his lips part, and his arms around you tighten. He pulls you in, again, one hand sliding up your back, between your shoulderblades, higher, until he's cupping the back of your neck and holding you in place. His lips brush the inside curve of one breast.

"It's not the only reason I asked you down," he mumbles against your skin.

You push a hand down his bare back. It's... incredible having him back, skin on skin. "I'll be nice and pretend that's true and say we'll worry about the rest later."

Steve drops a hand to your knee and runs it up, under your skirt. His fingers grip your thigh and he pulls you closer, as close as he can. He tips his head up, and you meet him halfway, a hot wet kiss that leaves you breathless.

His hand on your hip pulls you down and the arm around your back crushes you close. He shifts, rocking his hips up, bumping the line of his erection against you. You grind down on him, pressing your hips to his, rubbing your breasts against his chest. His hair catches your nipples, sparks of sensation. You stroke your fingers down his neck and over his shoulders and run your hands down his arms to his elbows. He's so solid. Solid and warm and so good.

Goosebumps rise on his skin. You shift back just far enough to get your hands between your bodies so you can run the backs of your fingers up the front of him, flatten your palms over his chest and rub his nipples, rake the tips of your fingers down the front of him again until you can tuck your fingertips into the waist of his pants.

He sucks in a breath.

And when he exhales, he seems to melt back against the ejection seat, his knees spreading just enough to give you a comfortable place to sit when you scoot back, his hand on your thigh relaxing and slipping to your knee, his hand on your back moving to your side. He's open, open in a way he so rarely is, and it feels like a gift. You lean in to kiss him as you open his belt, as you unbutton his pants and lower the zipper.

The suit pants don't have the same give jeans or his slacks or even the uniform do. You spread the fly open and tuck it so the zipper's teeth are covered. You run your knuckles lightly over the bulge of him in his shorts. He sighs. His grip on your knee tightens, just a little.

And you break the kiss and look down so you can watch your hands, watch as you free him from his shorts. He's hard, so hot, and you give the length of him a lazy stroke.

He shudders.

You slip an arm around his shoulders and push yourself up on your knees just a little, just so you can get closer to him. You keep stroking him, sure, long, slow strokes, and you cover his mouth, kiss him deep and wet. He groans and his hands flex against you. He sinks back. You go with him, rubbing your palm over the crown of his dick, stroking your fingers under the head of it, running the pad of your thumb over his slit and wrapping your fingers around it,  _come here_ , pushing and pulling gently, using precome to slick the way. He's so, so warm in your hand, and as the air between you heats up, begins to smell of sex, as his back arches and he's thrusting into your hand, you think,  _this is good._

You wish you could pull off and get down on your knees for him, but this is good.

You pull back just enough to watch his face, your lips held near his so you can steal kisses and feel his breath soft and hot. He's close. He's so close.

Until he covers your hand with his and stills you, until he stops moving except to tremble. "Stop."

You frown a little and steal a kiss. "Come on--"

"I want you." He tips his head up for a real kiss, long and slow. His voice is rough. "I want  _you_."

There's an unfamiliar desperation in his voice. You kiss him again and sweep the pad of your thumb over his slit. "I'm right here." You push your fingers up his neck, into his hair. "Let's take the edge off."

"I like the edge." He shifts his hips back, drawing his cock out of your grip, and his hands on your leg, on your side, pull you closer. He runs his hands up, up, until he's gripping your back and bringing your chest against his. He tips his chin up.

You kiss him and settle low on his lap, one arm around his shoulder, fingers in his hair, and the other hand on his chest, scratching lightly through the hair there. He grips your flank, fingers dug in, and he pulls you closer. He leans into the kiss, and his hands high on your thighs move you back and forth, sliding your clothed sex along his erection.

He's teasing you, or maybe he's teasing himself, or maybe he's teasing both of you. He licks into your mouth. His hand slips from your flank to the inside of your thigh and he's teasing the tips of his fingers in along the leg of your panties. You've already soaked through them, need and his closeness and his naked want doing the job well.

But he just teases. Strokes the tips of his fingers back and forth right there, at the crease between your body and your thigh, where the skin is velvet-soft. You whimper into his mouth and shift on his lap, trying to get his fingers where you want them the most.

His hand slides up over your ass, up your back, until he can curve his fingers around the back of your neck and anchor you close, and he breaks the kiss and pulls back just far enough to watch your face.

Your breath catches.

He eases your panties to the side and runs the tips of his fingers along your labia, sliding in the wetness. He groans, quiet and deep, and splits his fingers. He brushes the tip of his middle finger over your clitoris and you shudder, grip his shoulders.

"Will you open your eyes?"

You aren't aware you'd closed them. You blink, and he's got that unfamiliar desperation on his face again. You move a hand from his shoulder to cup his cheek, and for a moment, he turns into your touch, kisses your palm, closes his eyes. Then he's looking at you again, and his fingers are gone from your cunt, and the head of his cock is there, sliding between your lips, nudging.

You hold your breath.

He watches your face as he pushes in.

You can't help that your eyelids flutter. Your fingers curl against the back of his neck and he pulls you down, filling you, and for a long, long moment, both of you are still. His breaths are ragged and it feels like he's barely holding it together.

You kiss him and start to move.

His hand goes to the small of your back and his fingers around the back of your neck tighten, but he doesn't stop you. He just watches your face. He's not breathing. You keep kissing him, his lips, his chin, his jaw, his cheeks; his skin is so hot. He shifts his hips, finding your rhythm, matching it. Filling you up, emptying you out.

You don't mind the edges of the seat dug into your knees, or the heat inside the cockpit and the stink of sex, or the way your skin sticks to his every time you rock back. You'll have bruises so deep they'll take two weeks to heal, and you're going to need a shower soon, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is the way his eyes are finally fluttering shut, the way his fingers tighten, the way he shifts his hips and pushes up and holds, the way he shudders and it goes all through him, goosebumps rising on his skin and a shaky little breath escaping his lips.

All that matters is the contented way he melts back against the seat.

His hands go to your hips and still you when you try to pull off of him. He pulls you down, wraps his arms around you and holds you tight, tips his face and kisses you. And for a while, he holds you, stroking his hands up and down your back, kissing you, saying nothing.

The closeness and the warmth of his hands and the sound of his breath does nothing to ease the fire inside you. You shift.

"I need--"

He kisses you. "I know," he murmurs against your mouth.

And then his hand is there, and he's slipping out of you as his fingers stroke over you, fast, faster, just the right pressure and rhythm.

"I just needed you," he adds.

His arm around your back tightens, holding you still.

You start to shake. Every muscle in you goes tense. He pushes two fingers into you, rubs circles over your clitoris with his thumb, covers your mouth with his and swallows your moans, your whimpers. Your nails bite into his skin; he groans softly.

You'll apologize later.

It hurts. It starts in your toes, in your fingers, in your shoulders, and it folds you in on yourself; and then it seems to explode, starbursts behind your eyes and open fingers and loose knees, and you slump against him, shaking. His thumb on your clitoris keeps moving, his fingers pumping gently in and out of you, until you shudder and try to pull away, push uselessly at his shoulders. You're weak.

Steve wraps his arms around you, pushing his dry fingers through your hair so he can hold your head, guide it to his shoulder. You burrow in, folding your arms between you, pressing your face to his neck, kissing and breathing. You're still shaking.

His lips skate across your forehead, pause at your temple. He sighs, and his arms around you shift.

"How was the flight?"

You laugh. You can't help it. "It was good."

"Hungry yet?"

"Not for MREs," you tease.

He smiles against your hair and shakes his head a little. "We'll get out in a little while. Go upstairs and eat."

You snuggle closer. "In a little while. That sounds perfect."

"Yeah." He runs a hand up and down your back. "Thanks for coming down," he adds.

"I missed you."

He dips his face. "I missed you, too." His lips touch yours.


End file.
